The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  "Jeremiah, my WSO, landed beside me. He collapsed my parachute and treated my wounds. Our wingman directed the rescue effort."

  She noticed him looking above her, focusing at a distance while he spoke.

  "An Army helicopter lifted us out. I woke up in the hospital a couple of days later." Tom looked back into her eyes and smiled, but only with his lips. "The rest is well-documented military history." He took another long sip of iced tea and grinned. “But don’t expect to see it on the Biography Channel.”

  Several more questions spurred in her mind, though she did not know how to ask them, or even if she should. Where did you get hit? That would be a good one. Or, Can you describe your injuries in more detail? And then there was the even more medically intriguing, what types of surgeries were performed?

  She promised herself to squeeze for details another day, when the time was right.

  "Do you have a girlfriend in town?"

  "Kind of direct, Cassie. Why don't you ask me if I beat my dog, while you’re at it?"

  She smiled and raised one eyebrow. "Just answer the question."

  He grinned, but remained silent.

  "I guess you don’t." Cassandra said.

  “So,” she said, “Do you beat your dog?”

  He laughed. “I don’t have a dog.” Then he asked, “And what about you? Is there somebody special?"

  "No, not really." She thought this a better answer than the truth. "What do you do in Vienna?"

  Tom chewed and swallowed before answering. "Software engineer…a consultant. I contract with several technology firms out of Huntsville."

  "Does it keep you busy?"

  He ordered Turkish coffee for dessert. "Certainly not as busy as that emergency room must keep you."

  She smiled. The meal, this man’s company, the evening he planned for them all combined into a radiance that shined into her heart. She looked forward to the rest of their date.

  CHAPTER 29

  Saturday, July 14, 7:03 pm, Blown Oak Airport

  Gawkers milled like seagulls on a dumpster by the time Chief Anderson reached the airport. He wondered how the word could spread so quickly.

  "Move aside folks." Anderson grabbed his hand held radio. "Myra, get Greg and Aaron over to Blown Oak Airport."

  "Ten four Chief."

  “And make sure to call the FAA in Huntsville.”

  “Roger.”

  "Okay people, unless you saw what happened I want you to go."

  The small crowd dispersed and the compliance did not surprise Chief Anderson…small town folks abided the law. Only one man remained; a retired auto mechanic who spent the lion’s share of his leisure time at the airstrip.

  "The airplane flew into the building.” And, as if the obvious required visual aid, he made a hand-airplane and smacked it into his open palm. “I was at my hanger and heard Sam fire up the Pitts. I stopped to watch him takeoff. He puts on a show, sure enough, in that Pitts Special of his."

  Warren listened without interrupting.

  "Well, I walked out for a better view."

  The man stalled the story for several seconds, and Warren hoped he was not conjecturing.

  "And what did you see?" Warren asked in his most patient and neutral voice.

  "He did a couple of aileron rolls, a loop, then flew into a tight right turn, rolled inverted, and pointed his nose at the ground."

  "Then the airplane crashed?"

  "No Chief, I wouldn't put it that way.”

  Warren looked up from his notepad.

  “The airplane didn't crash as much as flew into the building."

  "Did the pilot appear to be in distress?" The Chief made an exception in his rule against conjecture. The auto mechanic did hold a private pilot’s license.

  "No sir."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because he flew the airplane all the way to the ground. Straight as it flew, that's precision flying. Can't do that by itself, no sir, not a Pitts."

  The Chief saw two patrol cars arrive.

  The medical examiner would perform the autopsy two days later, after he did the same for John Doe. They would find cerebral damage…an exploded blood vessel.

  "Thank you." Warren turned to inspect the wreckage. "Aaron, set up the tape. Keep folks out. And," he added, “Get all the addresses and phone numbers.”

  Saturday, July 14, 9:15 pm, Over Northern Alabama

  1

  Tom clicked his microphone button five times as they approached Blown Oak Airport and runway lights appeared. Cassandra saw the outline of the landing strip flash out of the dark. It looked like a postage stamp—like half a postage stamp—questionable room for reeling in a kite.

  "We are going to land there?" It came out more an admonition than a question.

  Tom nodded.

  “Double your money back if not completely satisfied."

  Through the darkness he noticed the blue flashing lights. High-wattage spotlights bathed the pilot’s lounge and Tom perceived a difference in the building. Turning his full attention to the landing, he put the aircraft down softly on the runway. They slowed to taxi speed and bumped the short distance to Tom's parking place.

  "That's a police car," Cassandra said. "I wonder what’s up."

  Tom shut down the engine, opened his door, found the tie-down ropes, and secured the left wing and tail of the Cessna. By the time he reached the right side, he saw Cassandra tying the rope.

  "You're getting more impressive by the minute."

  She looked up and grinned. "Doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out how to do this."

  "Good thing," he replied...and winked.

  They walked together toward the pilot's lounge. Yellow tape surrounded the building…yellow police tape.

  "My gosh," said Cassandra as the crumpled roof came into view. "Did something explode in there?" she asked one of the policemen standing inside the tape.

  "No ma'am,” he replied, "airplane flew into it."

  Tom’s hand went limp in Cassandra’s. She glanced at him and saw the look of a batter after taking a fastball to the solar plexus.

  "I don't see much damage," Tom said. It came out like pleading.

  "It flew through the roof, going straight down," replied the policeman.

  Tom read Moseley on the officer's metal nametag. The policeman looked around for a moment and then leaned forward to whisper, "Killed the pilot on impact."

  "Oh my word," Cassandra closed her eyes and shook her head. Tom took a quick glance around. All the familiar airplanes sat safely parked in their tie-down spots.

  "A pilot from out of town?" he asked.

  "No," replied the policeman, "Can't release the identity."

  Tom’s eyes continued to search. They stopped on a crumpled piece of candy-apple red wing fabric rustling in the wind. Cassandra saw panic welling in Tom like the muddy waters of a swollen creek that has breached the dam and is gathering at the final levy.

  "It's Sam," he told Cassandra.

  "Oh no," then, "Are you sure?"

  He nodded, color draining from his face. She put her arms around him, an impulsive move. He closed his eyes and, not caring a bit about the two-step dance of courtship, returned her embrace.

  Tom’s chest threatened to erupt like lava from an over-pressurized volcano. His buddy was dead…the cop confirmed as much earlier.

  "Are you okay?" Cassandra asked in a low voice.

  "I'm fine," he answered, but he suspected she knew better.

  "I'll have to ask you to leave,” Moseley said. “Chief Anderson wants everyone to stay clear.”

  "Yea, sure," said Tom. Cassandra grabbed his hand and they walked to their cars.

  "Why don't you let me drive you home,” she said. “Maybe it would be better to get your car tomorrow."

  He considered her offer and nodded. She unlocked the doors and they stepped in. Cassandra started the engine and began to move out of the parking place. She stopped.

  "I need to go back to the airplane
. I think I left my sunglasses in it."

  "I'll get them for you Cassie."

  2

  That’s the last thing she wanted…for him to walk past that building and its yellow tape.

  "You wait in the car. I know exactly where they are,” she said and quickly opened the door. Cassandra jumped out and ran into the darkness toward the airplane. She nearly tripped over one of the tie-down ropes as she stepped under the right wing.

  She leaned into the airplane, stretching into the dark cockpit to run her hands over the seat behind where she sat minutes earlier, and could just touch the glasses with her fingertips. Not enough for a grip.

  Cassandra lifted one leg off the ground and balanced her stomach against the front seat…an uncomfortable maneuver that proved successful. As she began to crawl out of the airplane Cassandra sensed someone behind. She glanced back to see a heavy-set figure standing close enough to touch her feet with a vast belly.

  CHAPTER 30

  Saturday, July 14, 9:38 pm, Blown Oak Airport

  Accustomed to different sorts of people in her emergency room gigs, Cassandra nonetheless felt intimidated. It was not so much that his bulk, and she’d seen people more in need of a bath and mouthwash. Once in Dallas, a younger and huskier drug addict tried to strangle her when she refused a prescription.

  What bothered Cassandra about this burly specimen came readily into focus. Though he would not take the prize in any single disgusting category, the guy was what you got when you blended all of those ingredients into a filthy dumpster and baked on high. His sudden appearance made her bang her elbow against the control wheel.

  "Howdy Missy," he said through a sparsely-populated and yellow-stained grin, "Didn't mean to frighten you none."

  "You did kind of sneak up," she managed as she slid her foot to the ground.

  "Beautiful evening, isn't it there?"

  "The weather is fine," she answered, and felt a little less vulnerable with both feet on the deck. The guy looked out of place. "Do you own an airplane?" She hoped for a yes. Yes would mean he belonged there, that the hairy belly peeking from the torn shirt got grimy from plying whatever mechanical work people engaged in on these tinker toy airplanes.

  "No, Missy. Don't know nothing about no airplane. I just come out to enjoy this fine evening."

  The feeling of vulnerability returned, with fifty percent interest. Cassandra saw her car in the distance and the policeman standing sentry over the damaged building…and decided to end the chit-chat and get away from this airport troll.

  "I don't want to interrupt your walk." She attempted a tactful disengagement.

  "To be honest," said Rotten Teeth, "I'm enjoying standing along right here with you."

  Her mind transmitted images of John Doe. Darkness sequestered her in a small world with this frightening man…his world, she felt sure…or was it paranoia? Although he did not stand quite close enough to bar her leaving, his position blocked her from moving toward the parking lot.

  "Who was that white boy you was with tonight?"

  "My friend." She forced the calm in her voice even as her mind repeated, White boy!

  "A friend of yours, and of old black Hattie, isn't he now?" Rotten Teeth chuckled, each heave ejecting enough stink to gag circling buzzards.

  Cassandra did not like his choice of language, but that was no surprise since she did not like anything about him.

  "Don't get riled, Missy, I've known Hattie awful long. If you know what I mean." He growled the last sentence and the image of an old cur dog came to mind…one with worms and rabies.

  "Now, Missy, suppose you tell me a little about your friend up there."

  She looked up again at the lights…and they seemed a hundred miles away.

  "I don't mean to be rude, but I need to get going. So if you’ll pardon me, please…"

  "Go ahead now Missy. I'm sure we'll get to know each other better. Real soon." He edged aside. "You and I will get personal close." Puffs of putrid breath punctuated the statement. "Just like me and old Sam Howard did today."

  That did it.

  "Tom! I've found my glasses!"

  Rotten Teeth looked up toward the lights. Not sure if she would get another chance, Cassandra brushed past and began a brisk walk/half-sprint for the car, convinced Rotten Teeth would follow and pull her back before she could reach the lights. She tripped over the same tie-down rope that nearly claimed her before, and flailed for a moment before regaining her feet. As she emerged out of the darkness, Cassandra heard a chuckle turn into an unrestrained laugh.

  "Don't wait up for me,” he said.

  Out of breath, Cassandra jumped into the driver's side…and tried to look calm. Tom sat semi-reclined in the other seat, his eyes shut.

  "Did you find them?" Tom opened his eyes. Before she could answer, he said, "Hey, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing." A brief debate raged in her mind. Fearing Tom might confront the man, she decided not to say anything about the encounter at the airplane. Beside the dangers associated with that, the man also possessed unsettling knowledge about her…About Tom.

  She settled on "Took a little longer than I expected.”

  Tom looked at her for what extended into a long, unsettling silence.

  "If you say so."

  Clearly, her lame explanation did not satisfy him.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes and she could feel Tom's eyes probing more than once. He broke the quiet.

  "I'm glad we went out tonight."

  She responded with a genuine smile though her mind produced good reasons for caution.

  "So am I," she said, and wondered what she had gotten herself into. She would see him again—hoped she would. On the other hand, she felt equally sure she would once again face the troll who startled her at the airplane…the man who knew Hattie…and who also seemed to know Tom.

  "Let’s go straight to Aunt Hattie's,” he said. “She promised dessert and coffee."

  "Sounds good." He did not want the date to end…that was obvious. Neither did she. And now that the airport sat several miles behind, the encounter with the stranger didn’t feel so ominous.

  "Take a right here, Cassie."

  They turned down the residential street and saw a police car parked in front of Hattie's house. Cassandra wondered how many times lightning could strike in a stormless night.

  CHAPTER 31

  Saturday, July 14, 10:13 pm, Hattie’s House

  1

  "I'll meet you inside." Tom jumped out of Cassandra’s car and ran to the front door. "Aunt Hattie!"

  "In here, baby." And she was…in the same kitchen chair she occupied when Tom left for work. The man sipping coffee opposite her was Chief Warren Anderson.

  "Sorry to worry you Tom. Stopped by hoping to find you."

  Cassandra walked in the kitchen.

  "Everyone okay?"

  "Oh, Doctor Walters, hello there.”

  If the two arriving in the same car surprised Warren, he did not show it.

  “Just wanted Tom’s opinion on something."

  Cassandra looked from Tom to Warren. "Should I let you talk in private?"

  "Have a seat, child,” Hattie said. She asked, “How do you take your coffee?"

  "Is this about Sam's accident tonight?" Tom asked as he poured the coffee. The Chief nodded.

  "You're a pilot with a fair amount of experience, aren't you?"

  "I've logged over three thousand flight hours."

  Tom knew most people heard pilots speak in hours, even if the Chief didn’t understand where to put the number on the experience scale, nodded as if three thousand sounded suffiecient..

  "Did you ever fly Sam's airplane?"

  "Sure…A lot.”

  "Sam a skilled pilot?"

  "The best. He flew jets for thirty years in the Air Force. Had several kills in the Korean War and flew the Ho Chi Minh trail in Vietnam."

  "I see." Warren looked as if his limited knowledge of aviation conspired to make formulation o
f his next question difficult.

  "With some type of pilot incapacitation, would the airplane fly in a straight line or would it fall out of the sky?"

  “Airplanes never fall out of the sky,” Tom said. But his mind knew that wasn’t quite true. Sometimes airplanes DO fall out of the sky. Tom thought about the missile…but that was just fooling himself and he knew it. He gave in to his mind’s desire and thought about the man…the one riding the missile…or was he?

  “You were saying?” Anderson’s voice brought Tom back.

  "Chief, you've got to make a Pitts Special fly straight. It's like trying to balance on the sharp end of a safety pin.” Tom held a spoon vertically and centered his open palm above it.

  “A slight amount of pressure one way or the other upsets equilibrium." Tom canted his hand and allowed it to fall off the spoon.

  Warren remained silent for several seconds.

  "What if something broke…you know, mechanical failure?"

  "Yes, but it would have to be catastrophic and you’d see erratic aircraft movement.” He paused. “You can't leave the stick in one place…you continually correct back or front pressure as airspeed or wind change."

  Warren presented another possibility.

  "Did you speak with Sam Howard today?"

  "Both Cassie and I did."

  "How was he? Seem depressed?"

  Tom felt himself stiffened at the implication.

  “If you're hinting at suicide, forget it. The man loved his life at the airport. And you can bet on another thing." He paused. "Sam would never bend his Pitts intentionally."

  Tom noticed Hattie's eyes flash, as if she just remembered something important.

  2

  Hattie smelled Leland Graves all over this. It came this way before, like a hesitant rainstorm. A drop here, a plop there, not much at first but then the deluge. These first drops landed on Sam Howard. No chance the Chief would believe it… nor would her Tommy.

  Leland Graves killed Sam.

  3

  "Chief, do local police usually investigate airplane accidents?" Cassandra asked.